


Second Chances

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Organized Crime, Post-Season/Series 02, Prompt Fic, Romance, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: When Foggy meets an old acquaintance who's fallen on hard times, he naturally does his best to help. When this leads to romance, he couldn't be happier.
Unfortunately, life is never that simple.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iraya/gifts).



> Thank you to Vicky for her valiant beta efforts, without which this story would be vastly poorer. :)
> 
> **ETA:** As of 6/25/17, this story has been significantly edited and extended to fill in the time jump between Ray getting his new job and Matt's second big argument with Foggy, and just generally smooth the plot and character arcs over the whole length of the fic. These are all changes I wanted to make last December, but I ran out of time before the archive went live. Six months late is better than never? *wry*

Foggy had just finished paying for his hot dog (because he might have money to spare now, but what was the point of living in New York if you couldn't indulge in dubious yet delicious street vendor products on the first actually nice day of spring) when a vaguely familiar voice behind his left shoulder said, "Uh, hey, are you Foggy Nelson? You probably don't remember me, but we used to know each other in high school?"

Foggy turned, and the sense of vague familiarity grew stronger. Medium-tall man, medium brown skin, broad shoulders, solid muscle under his shirt, and dark hair in need of a trim. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, his nose intensely aquiline, and a tentative grin hovered awkwardly at the corners of his mouth. Good-looking, for sure -- actually, he looked like he could probably bench-press Foggy, which maybe shouldn't still have been a turn-on after Matt, but Foggy's libido had apparently never grasped the concept of caution. It all added up to someone he felt he ought to know, but he couldn't quite put a name to the face.

"Yeah, I'm Foggy," he said. "Sorry, I seem to have misplaced your name."

"Ray," the man said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his battered green windbreaker as he took a few steps sideways to let Foggy move away from the hot dog cart and clear the sidewalk for everyone else. He looked a little embarrassed, which Foggy couldn't help registering as cute. "Ramon Gutierrez -- you and my sister Soledad were in the same year, had a bunch of classes together? You came over to our place sometimes for group projects and stuff."

Light dawned. "Oh! Yeah, Ray. Wow, time flies," Foggy said. He offered a smile slightly warmer than professional. He and Ray hadn't been friends -- he'd already been uncool enough back then without befriending kids two years younger -- but they'd gotten on all right, talked baseball and cop shows a few times when Soledad called for snack breaks or had to go haul her little sister out of trouble. Ray's own smile warmed in response. "What have you been up to, man? I run into Soledad now and then at roller derby matches, but she hasn't said anything about you for ages."

Ray's smile faded and he hunched into his windbreaker. "Yeah, well, I made some dumb-ass mistakes. You know how it is, when you're young and stupid -- or maybe you don't, you always had your life together. Anyway, I've, uh, I've been doing time. But I'm out now, and I'm trying to make things right. Soledad's between roommates, so she's letting me crash at her place until I get my feet back under me, but it's tough, you know? Finding a job in this economy, with a felony record and no experience."

"Ouch. I hear you," Foggy said, and let his mouth spin sympathy on autopilot while he mentally recalibrated. He knew, statistically and demographically speaking, that a fair number of people he knew in passing had had brushes with the wrong side of the law, but it was always weird when statistics turned into living, breathing reality. What the hell had Ray even done that was bad enough to get stuck in prison for... must be five, ten years? He'd always seemed kind of a loose cannon, but Foggy wouldn't have pegged him as a future felon.

Then again, he hadn't expected Karen to turn into Frank Castle's biggest fan, or for Matt to secretly be a violence-addicted vigilante. Apparently his character judgment sucked, and also, hot people came with inconvenient baggage.

"Anyway, what kind of thing are you looking for?" Foggy wound up. "I'm not promising anything, but I used to do some pro bono stuff helping guys sort through forms and whatever, and I know people who might have some part-time jobs available."

Ray shrugged, hands still jammed into his jacket pockets. "I got an accounting degree while I was locked up, but no joy on that front. I mean, I was in for robbery, assault, and firearms charges, not embezzlement or anything, but still. For some reason people don't like crooks handling their money. Can't think why." His smile reappeared for an instant, wryly self-mocking. "I've been doing some under the table dishwashing, but the hours suck and the pay's hardly enough to buy lunch. And all my IDs are expired and I've got no insurance and just-- it's a mess."

"Mmm," Foggy said. He wondered whether the offer he was about to make was a smart one. He did like helping people, but his judgment might not be strictly impartial when the person who needed helping looked like Ray -- no matter how bad Ray's baggage might turn out to be.

But no, he'd do this anyway. Help out an old friend's kid brother, or leave both Ray and Soledad scrambling and stressed out? Not exactly a tricky moral dilemma.

"Look, I'd be willing to help you out," he said. "Like I said, I used to do that kind of thing regularly, and I wouldn't exactly mind Soledad owing me a favor for getting your butt off her couch. But I have a one o'clock meeting that I can't afford to miss. How about I give you my phone number or email and we'll talk details when I have more time and you have all your papers and shit pulled together. Sound like a plan?"

"Shit, yeah! Wow, man, this is the nicest thing anyone's done for me in ages," Ray said. "Uh, hang on, let me see if I remember how to work this thing." He pulled a cheap smartphone out of his pocket and said, absently, "Phones got weird while I was inside, you know? It's damn cool what you can do with them now, but still, seriously fucking weird. Um. Okay. I think I'm on the right screen. What's your number?" 

Foggy told him, and Ray pressed the keypad on his touchscreen with deep concentration, the tip of his tongue just barely visible between his teeth. It was incongruously adorable.

"Got it," Ray said, and tucked his phone away again. "Anyway, don't let me keep you. Go enjoy your hot dog and make stupid amounts of money doing whatever it is that keeps you in those nice suits."

"That would be practicing law," Foggy said with a grin. "Didn't the talk of pro bono work give me away?"

Ray laughed. "Slipped right by me, but hey -- I guess we're both crooks then. Thanks again, man. I'll text you tonight once I get my shit together."

"I'll look forward to it," Foggy said, and discovered, to his surprise, that he really would. And not just because the prospect of spending more time with Ray might make him feel things he hadn't felt in a while. Sure, this wasn't exactly the kind of thing he'd gone into business with Matt to deal with, but it was a lot closer than most of his current work load at Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz. It felt good to think about solving more tangible problems, helping people get back on their feet when life knocked them down.

He hummed to himself all the way back to his office.

\---------------

"Congratulations!" Foggy said as Ray dropped into a seat at the hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro Matt had discovered back during their internships. They did pasta and tiramisu to die for, and their wine list was surprisingly cheap for its quality. "How does it feel to rejoin the ranks of the gainfully employed?"

"Rejoin? More like join in the first place," Ray said. He looked good in his interview clothes: charcoal slacks and a maroon crew-neck sweater that clung just a little too tightly to his broad chest and shoulders for Foggy to maintain a strictly professional state of mind.

"But it feels good," Ray continued. "It feels _real_ good. I mean, warehouse clerk wages won't leave me rolling in dough or anything, but I can at least pay Soledad my share of rent and groceries while I figure out my next step."

"Begins with a single step, the journey of a thousand miles, hmm?" Foggy said in his best imitation of Yoda.

Laughing, Ray swatted him with his laminated menu. "Cut it out, man. I'm no Luke Skywalker."

"You have the hot sister, don't you? And a getaway driver's kind of like a pilot. But okay, you can be Anakin instead. You had your idiot youth phase, you had your Darth Vader phase, now it's time for your redemption phase."

Ray groaned and raised his eyes theatrically to the ceiling. "You see this? This is what I have to put up with. Jokers, all day long."

Foggy put on his most annoying self-satisfied smile. "Don't front, you know you love it."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. He and Ray got along well, but there wasn't any reason to assume Ray was interested in him. Moreover, he wasn't entirely sure he was interested himself. Well, okay, fine. He was definitely interested in a physical sense. But did he really want something more, or was that just loneliness talking?

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the look Ray shot him, but the waiter appeared and introduced himself before Ray could say anything and by the time they were done ordering, Ray had evidently decided not to share his thoughts. He asked about Foggy's day instead -- "Look, I already told you all about mine over the phone; let's not keep rehashing until the shine wears off" -- and it wasn't like Foggy needed much prodding to launch into the latest episode of the HCB office soap opera.

(Seriously, a reality TV show about his coworkers would make somebody millions.)

Eventually they finished dinner and made their leisurely way through a shared slice of tiramisu. Foggy felt loose and warm from good food, good wine, and good company -- the sort of happiness he hadn't felt since... since the first couple months at Nelson and Murdock, wow. Maybe his life was finally getting back on track. How much of that was related to Ray? Foggy glanced at him, took in Ray's magnetic eyes and laughing mouth, and decided to be brave.

"I'm glad you ran into me last month," he said, smiling across the undersized table. "I think I needed to help you as much as you needed my help. Plus it's been good reconnecting."

"It has, hasn't it?" Ray agreed. Then he bit his lip, teeth dragging through a trace of custard, and gave Foggy the same indecipherable look he'd let slide earlier in the evening. "Um. And on that note -- and you can totally shoot me down if I'm out of line here -- but I kind of like you, man. Like, a lot. And now that I'm not your client anymore, do you want to, maybe, see if this could go anywhere?"

Foggy blinked. This whole night -- this whole past month, really -- he'd been trying to keep his desire for Ray in check because he wasn't sure if it was returned, and now this? "Ramon Gutierrez, are you asking me out?"

Ray's smile took on the twist of self-directed humor he seemed to use as a shield. "I really need to stop talking around my own damn points, don't I? Yeah, Foggy. I'm asking you out. Are you saying yes or no?"

"I think... I think I'm saying yes."

"You could maybe try sounding a little more enthusiastic, man," Ray said, pointing his dessert fork at Foggy.

Foggy snorted. "Yeah, well, I haven't been thinking about relationships for a while -- haven't really been in the right place." And wasn't that an understatement. But this was good, and he wanted Ray to know that. "So you caught me by surprise. But I kind of like you, too, and I'm game to see if it goes anywhere. I can't commit to more than that right off the bat."

Ray ate the last bite of tiramisu before answering. Then he said, "Yeah, okay, I get that. It's only been, what, five weeks? And I come with baggage -- like, man, I have not forgotten that part. But we click, you know? It's real easy to talk to you and just be with you. And I bet we'll click in other ways, too: tab A into slot B just as directed."

He winked and raked his eyes deliberately down Foggy's torso and stared like he could see straight to Foggy's dick through the table.

Foggy cracked up. "That was _terrible_ ," he tried to say through his laughter. "So terrible. I refuse to be seen in public with a man who uses pick-up lines that bad."

"Yeah, but will you let me see you in private?" Ray said, still grinning.

Would he? Was he ready to leap headfirst into something with the potential for long-term commitment? He'd been burned, badly, by Matt shutting him out of their friendship and flaking out on their partnership. And Marci was just a friends-with-benefits thing on both their parts, something easy and undemanding.

Did he want to open himself up and risk getting burned again?

"You know, I think I just might," he said to Ray, and leaned across the tiny, wobbling table to venture a kiss.

It felt like new beginnings.

\---------------

After they dissolved Nelson and Murdock, Matt and Foggy set up a biweekly Sunday lunch date, alternating between their apartments -- the idea being that it was better to yell about illegal things in private than in public. They'd been getting slightly less awkward over time, in the sense that they now spent more time yelling than avoiding danger spots with curdled politeness. That was both a relief and a new source of stress. On the one hand, Foggy didn't like being estranged from Matt and they'd never work through their issues if they couldn't talk about them honestly, but on the other hand, if they ever found their way to a new rhythm (not the old rhythm, or their retrospectively futile attempt to paper over its cracks) then he was afraid Matt might start campaigning for Foggy to quit yet another prestigious law firm and come work for nothing but pastries and ulcers. And he was not going back to that.

This week, he was playing host, which meant takeout curry and beer. The curry was from one of the three Indian restaurants Matt had identified as acceptable (Foggy wasn't sure whether his rating scale was based on use of spices or sanitation, and had carefully avoided asking), and the beer came from a microbrewery in Brooklyn whose website said pretentious things about terroir and regional yeast varieties that struck him as potentially up Matt's alley.

Unfortunately none of those preparations seemed likely to matter when Matt unlocked the door and strode into Foggy's apartment in a towering fury.

"For someone who dislikes secrets, you've been keeping a hell of a big one," he said, voice clearly kept to conversational levels through gritted teeth and sheer force of will. "Since when do you date _violent criminals?_ " He paused, sniffed, and snarled, "Correction: since when do you _fuck_ violent criminals? I can smell him all over your couch."

Oh, goddammit. Foggy should have known this was coming.

(And wasn't it just like Matt to store up his outrage until he could perform it face to face, instead of shouting over the telephone like a normal person?)

"I told you I'd started seeing someone, and I said he'd done some dumb shit as a kid but was working to turn his life around. All of that was true," Foggy said, trying to keep his tone reasonable and calm. It was hard when Matt had the ability to get under his skin so easily -- and the way he loomed in Foggy's living room, red lips bitten half raw and thick hair tousled like he'd run his hands through it over and over in agitation.

Foggy was not going to rehash old college fantasies of running his own fingers through that hair.

Matt leaned against the counter that separated Foggy's kitchen from his living room. His knuckles were white, like he was forcing himself to not curl his hands into fists and punch something. "That is not the point," he snapped. "Everything I told you about myself was true, too -- about my senses, about Daredevil, about Elektra -- but that doesn't excuse all the things I left out. You were right about that. I admit that; you were right."

Foggy folded his arms across his chest. "Oh, _now_ you admit it? That's just peachy-keen of you. What's the twist that lets you win your argument anyway? Don't even try to pretend there isn't one; I know all your rhetorical tricks."

Matt's smile was all teeth, the one he usually saved for opposing counsel or hostile witnesses. (Or Daredevil's victims, probably.) "No trick. Just truth. You see, honesty has to work both ways. Lies of omission don't change their moral acceptability depending on who tells them."

He shoved away from the counter and began stalking back and forth across Foggy's living room. "Have you looked up Ramon Gutierrez's record? I did. He didn't only drive a getaway car. He had a gun, Foggy. He shot at a pedestrian who saw his friends leaving the jewelry store, put him in the hospital for a week. If he'd had better aim, he'd still be locked up -- where he should be."

"What Ray did was inexcusable. I'm not disagreeing about that. But he was nineteen--"

"Don't try to paint him like he was an innocent kid! All his accomplices said he was the one who planned the robbery. It was his idea, not something anyone pushed him into. It even would have worked if one of the others hadn't bragged to the wrong person the next day."

"I know he planned it. Do you know why? Because I asked him. His friends were going to rob something anyway and he wanted to make sure they got through it alive! He was nineteen and gangs are like peer pressure on steroids. He got talked into stupid shit -- like you did with Elektra, and you were twenty-one by then so I don't know what the hell your excuse was. Ray had his day in court, he was convicted, and he's served his time. The legal system worked."

Dammit, how did Matt always manage to make him lose his temper? Foggy never used to think of himself as an angry person -- especially not around Matt -- but these days it sometimes felt like Matt could piss him off just by breathing. And obviously Matt still didn't trust Foggy's judgment if he was pushing for him to dump Ray, so why was Foggy still giving Matt space in his head?

Matt opened his mouth but Foggy cut him off: "It _worked_. The system we both swore to uphold functioned as designed, just like it did with Fisk in the end. Now Ray's trying to get his life back on track, which is more than I can say for you. You say you were wrong not to tell me about Elektra. Great! I'm glad you've finally internalized that. But you're still going out and beating people into permanent disability every night, and you still let our firm nosedive even though it was everything you used to claim you wanted. Ray's trying to get better. You're still getting worse. And you like it that way!"

"Foggy, that is not--"

"Furthermore, the main reason I was so pissed off at you for not telling me stuff is that we were best friends and partners, and your secrets had a direct bearing on my own legal liability and chances of not going completely broke. Maybe we're still some kind of friends, maybe we're trying to rebuild, but it's not the same. You gave up your right to my trust. You haven't earned it back. And without that, my romantic life is none of your fucking business."

For a second, Matt looked like Foggy had slapped him. Then shock (and hurt?) vanished under anger and he spat out, "Fine. I'll take my untrustworthy self out of your apartment. You can have my key back. Give it to your boyfriend; I'm sure he'll never misuse it."

He fumbled a key angrily off his keyring and threw it toward the kitchen.

Foggy flinched, reflexively, but the key landed neatly in the bowl of Jolly Ranchers he kept on the counter, a good two feet away from any chance of hitting him.

This time Matt's smile was a close-mouthed twist of his lips, lingering and bitter. He turned neatly on his heel and walked out of the apartment, unfolding his cane as he went.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Foggy counted to sixty, then counted to sixty again. It probably wasn't enough, not if Matt was still trying to listen in on him, but he'd never asked exactly how much and how far Matt could hear. He hadn't wanted to know. He still didn't really want to know.

He fished the key out of the candy bowl and dropped it into the trash bin. He'd get a new spare made when he was ready to take that step with Ray; he couldn't just re-gift this one. That would be... Foggy wasn't sure, exactly, but some kind of shark-infested emotional waters he didn't want to dive into or even look at too closely.

Then he raked his hands through his hair and collapsed onto one of the barstools beside the counter. "Fuck."

\---------------

"You were awesome! Totally awesome! The awesomest!" Ray said, raising his voice over the chaos of the skating rink as he yanked Soledad into a hug.

"Don't, kiddo, I'm all gross and sweaty," she protested, but bent down on her skates and kissed her brother on the cheek. "Thanks for coming, you guys. You really gave the jeerleaders some oomph."

"Have you ever known me to pass up roller derby?" Foggy asked, then held up his hands when Soledad raised her eyebrows. "Rhetorical question! Moving on! Ray's right, you were completely amazing out there. What's your record for the season so far?"

"Three-zero for the All-Stars, one-one for the Mayhem, but it's early days," Soledad said. Then she grinned. "Still, we are pretty awesome, aren't we? Give me fifteen minutes to get showered and changed, and I'll treat you to dinner like I promised. You can sing my praises more over empanadas." She skated off toward the locker rooms: a tall, broad-shouldered figure with 'Queen of Angles' printed on her jersey and a sable ponytail streaming behind her like a flag.

True to her word, Soledad took them back to her apartment (which was still Ray's as well, until he found something affordable at his wage rate) by way of what she swore was the best empanada cart in the city. "Just like Abuelita's, no?" she said, elbowing Ray as she dug her wallet out of her duffel bag.

"Mmmph," Ray said around a mouthful of beef, potato, and onions; he'd filched one of the empanadas out of the paper bag rather than wait to get home. "Remember the sauces," he added after swallowing.

"Like I'd forget." Soledad tucked away her change and handed one of the bags to Foggy. "Let's get moving, gentlemen. I want booze with my meal."

Soledad, Foggy discovered, made excellent margaritas: fresh limes, relatively high-end tequila, and actual Cointreau for the orange liqueur. She didn't skimp on the salt, either.

"You are a goddess among women," he said after his first swallow.

Soledad preened theatrically.

Ray snickered into his own drink. "Hey now, don't flirt too hard. My life's hard enough without losing my boyfriend to my own sister."

"Chill, kiddo, I'm not out to lay more troubles on you," Soledad said. "Oh, speaking of which! Did you get that thing with your manager resolved?"

Ray scowled. "Kind of. Like, I'm not in trouble. Beasley knows it was an honest mistake, and I'm not going to forget to ask for a driver's name and verify that they're actually meant to pick up an order again. But he's still pissed off and now I'm stuck on probationary hire for another month. It's bullshit how little money or respect I get for the amount of work they're getting from me, you know?"

"That's rough," Foggy said, shifting his chair a little closer to Ray so their thighs touched under the tablecloth.

"It is. I think every job's like that at first, though," Soledad said. "You always start low man on the totem pole, and moving up is more about bullshit office politics than about demonstrating competence. I'd probably still be a starving adjunct if Horowitz hadn't taken a shine to me and wrangled me an assistant professorship in the comp sci department. And now I've got tenure -- precious, beautiful tenure." She cackled in an eerily good imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Law firms are the same," Foggy agreed. "It worked in my favor at HCB -- they jumped me over a bunch of people who'd been there for years -- but yeah, it's totally about bullshit office politics. And heading off to start your own business comes with a very high risk of going broke before you build enough reputation to get a stream of paying clients. Again, I speak from experience."

"I thought you were doing all right until Murdock flaked on you with the Castle case?" Soledad said.

Foggy shrugged. "I didn't want to talk about it, but we were pretty near broke. Matt was all about defending the innocent, but the thing is, the completely innocent don't always have a lot of money. Even setting that aside, there are a lot more people who are guilty of something but not as guilty as the prosecution wants to paint them, and people who are guilty but have mitigating circumstances. I'm okay with defending them. Matt wasn't so flexible."

That was a misrepresentation, of course, but he couldn't exactly tell Ray or Soledad the real reasons Nelson and Murdock had fallen apart. And Matt _was_ a self-righteous son of a bitch sometimes. He could shoulder this bit of harmless slander.

"That sounds like it sucked," Ray said sympathetically. "But you're in a better place now, right?"

"A much better place -- with chairs so fancy I don't even know how to sit in them," Foggy said, and then had to squelch a pang of melancholy when he realized neither Ray nor Soledad would fully get the joke.

He changed the subject. "Anyway, aside from your manager, how's your job going? You haven't talked much about it this week."

Ray shrugged. "What's to talk about? Stock comes in, stock goes out, I walk around with a scanner clipped to my belt and make sure the physical inventory matches the computer records. Boring as hell, you know? I can't even talk much to the other poor schmucks without Beasley coming down on us for inefficiency. The only interesting thing was that bogus delivery driver swiping a hundred toaster ovens and other kitchen gadgets out from under my fucking nose. Well, and the break-in Wednesday night, but I wasn't on shift for that and it's not my problem."

Soledad set down her margarita glass and frowned. "Two thefts in one week? That doesn't sound good. I thought Manhattan might finally catch a break after that Punisher guy took out all those gangs, plus Daredevil's still around knocking heads."

"And let's not forget the police cleaning their own house," Foggy added. "Well, a smidge. As a defense attorney, the police are my natural opponents, and there's still a lot of systemic rot and prejudice, but even I have to admit they weeded out a bunch of dirty cops when Fisk went down. If that's not helping, what's gone wrong?"

"Power vacuum," Ray said. "I mean, I talk to some guys I knew from before. Nothing serious, just catching up -- who got married, whose kids did something funny, who's got health problems, that kind of thing. They wouldn't tell me anything important anyway, since they know I'm out of that scene, you know? But the thing is, there's always going to be crime and someone's always going to try organizing it, but right now nobody's in charge. Fisk kept the infighting under control, but he went down hard. Then the Punisher and the Devil took out the main contenders trying to replace him, right? So there's a whole bunch of little baby operations trying to grow real big real fast with no clue about logistics, and I guess turf wars make people do stupid shit."

"You sound like some of my colleagues over in the sociology department. Ever thought about maybe going to college on the outside, getting a four-year degree instead of just an associates?" Soledad said. "I know for a fact you have the brains for it."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. With what money? And for what point? Let's face it: you and Emilia are the success stories in our family. I'm the cautionary fuckup everyone would rather pretend doesn't exist. It's cool. I'm okay with that."

"Hey, knock that off. I don't want to hear anyone putting my boyfriend down. Not even you," Foggy said. "You analyzed that problem like a pro, which is obviously more than Soledad or I were managing. If you want to go to night school, I'm pretty sure she can help you apply to CUNY and I can help you apply for scholarships and student loans, and foot whatever's left of the bill. Everybody deserves a chance to get ahead."

"What he said," Soledad agreed, tilting her margarita glass in Foggy's direction. "We just want what's best for you, kiddo. If that's working in a warehouse, that's cool. Just remember you have other options if you want to grab them. Okay?"

"Yeah, whatever," Ray grumbled, but he smiled as he spoke.

Foggy leaned sideways and dropped a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Awesome. And now, let's get back to the original purpose of this dinner and sing your sister's praises. All hail the valiant Queen of Angles, mighty warrior of the rink!"

Ray laughed, and Foggy awarded himself a point for a job well done.

\---------------

"This is cheating. You are a cheating cheater who cheats, and you lured me here under false pretenses," Foggy murmured to Karen as he spotted Matt slouching in the shadows of a corner table at Josie's. "Don't worry, I'm not going to scream and bail on you. I just want that stated clearly for the record."

"For the record? If you'd told me this was an interview, I would have brought my notepad."

"Smart-ass," Foggy said, and flicked his fingers at the air just above Karen's shoulder -- bare tonight, except for the spaghetti strap of her blue-and-yellow sundress. Summer had arrived with a vengeance, and Foggy himself was in an old Mets t-shirt that he didn't get nearly enough chances to wear now that he had regular office hours and couldn't get away with doing case prep at home.

Even Matt was wearing something that wasn't a suit, the _other_ suit, or a hoodie and sweatpants. Foggy had forgotten how magnetic he could look in a plain black t-shirt and the beat-up jeans he'd been dragging around since junior year at Columbia. Somehow the fading black eye and the bandaid on his chin didn't detract from the look. It pissed Foggy off. Assholes shouldn't get to look that good.

Karen followed Foggy's gaze and blew air between her lips: a frustrated sort of sound. "Listen, I don't know what's going on between you and Matt, but he's been gloomier than usual since, oh, around Memorial Day, give or take. Meanwhile you've been ducking out every time I try to see you in person and not answering half my calls. And you've both very pointedly not been talking about each other, so I figure you had another fight." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled, wryly. "You're amazingly codependent for two men who claim they have no connections left. It would be hilarious if it weren't so annoying."

"Objection: I have not been gloomy."

"Overruled: I never said _you_ were gloomy, just that you've been avoiding me and you haven't mentioned Matt even in passing. Don't put words in my mouth. But the point-- the point is, that I would like to be able to see both of my friends at the same time, so you can suck it up and play nice for one evening in honor of Ellison giving me a regular weekend op-ed column so I'm not stuck writing fluff pieces all the time. Okay?"

Foggy sighed. "Yeah, okay. Hey, Matt. Long time no see," he added as he and Karen reached Matt's claimed table.

"Likewise," Matt said, and smirked.

Karen swatted ineffectively at his hair and Foggy laughed despite himself.

Josie came over with a bottle of some unlabeled alcohol -- "Tequila, maybe? In the tequila family, at any rate," Matt said after sniffing the open neck; "I think that's called mezcal," Karen said -- and three tumblers, scowled briefly at each of them in turn, and left them to their own devices.

The conversation was surprisingly not awkward, though Foggy suspected most of that was down to Karen carefully steering them away from sensitive topics. This did mean he spent a solid hour arguing with her about roller derby, while Matt tossed in unhelpful analogies and statistics from completely different sports. But if Foggy had disliked arguments, he would never have gone into law, so that was fine. It was actually relaxing to argue over something where winning didn't matter because it wasn't for his job, or about some desperate tangle of ethics and business and messy personal emotions.

Eventually Matt unfolded his cane and said, "I need the bathroom. Don't burn down the building while I'm gone."

"I won't. I can't speak for Danger McGee over here, though," Foggy said, and grinned to himself at the combination of Karen's mock-outrage and Matt's laugh -- not the full, beaming smile, head thrown back in breathless amusement laugh Foggy remembered from college and law school, but at least proper laughter from his chest and a real smile instead of a brief chuckle and a shallow uptick of his lips.

Karen addressed herself to refilling their glasses, then glanced around to make sure Matt had vanished past the noisy pool table crowd into the back hallway. "I need to talk to you," she said, voice suddenly hushed and serious.

Foggy made a face. "He can still hear us. At least, I think he can."

"He can," Karen said, sounding utterly certain. "But he won't necessarily be paying attention. He has to concentrate to-- to filter everything. Sort the signal from the noise. Most of the time he doesn't bother. Even if he is eavesdropping, at least this way we can pretend it's less awkward than if I asked you personal questions with him sitting right in front of you."

"Definitely false pretenses, Ms. Page," Foggy said. "But okay. I can take it. Hit me."

Karen knocked back a swallow of I-can't-believe-it's-not-tequila and wiped her wrist over her mouth. "Okay. So. I hear you have a boyfriend."

Foggy felt his face soften involuntarily as he thought about Ray. "Yeah, I do. Since the middle of May. His name's Ray Gutierrez, we knew each other in passing back in high school. He's pretty awesome." Inspiring, in a way, for trying to turn his life around after hitting rock bottom. Comfortable, as a reminder of the people and communities Foggy had grown up in and still wanted to help. Sexy, too; but that was private.

"Why did I have to wait two months to hear about him, and even then secondhand through Matt?"

"Because it's still new-ish and I don't want to jinx anything. The only person I've told is Marci, and that's just because she's incurably nosy and knows what I look like the day after I get laid," Foggy said. Then the rest of Karen's words percolated through the warm haze of alcohol and he straightened in indignation. "Wait, Matt told you?"

Karen tilted her hand back and forth, equivocally. "Kind of. More like I pried it out of him? But he said a few things that got me worried, so I wanted--"

"He has _no right_ ," Foggy snapped.

"Oh boy, here we go," Karen muttered under her breath, but Foggy was not to be distracted.

"Look, Ray is a felon. I know that. I get that. But he served his time, he's out, and he's turning his life around. Maybe Matt doesn't want to believe that people can change -- maybe that would interfere with however he reconciles the morality of handing out traumatic brain injuries like candy, maybe he thinks only vigilantes should get a pass for waving guns around -- but it's my life and he doesn't get a say anymore. I would have thought you, of all people, with your boo-hoo let's cry for Frank Castle routine, would understand that and tell Matt to _mind his fucking business_."

"I did!" Karen said. She slapped her hand on the table and repeated, "I did tell him that. Because you're right, he's being hypocritical. But that doesn't mean I can't be worried in my own right."

"On what grounds--" Foggy began, but Karen plowed right over him.

"I don't care about Ray's record. What I care about is the way you've been vanishing on me and Matt since you met him. I get new relationships take-- they take time, and attention, and they're exciting. You get fizzy bubbles in your stomach and-- and daydream on the clock. All that stuff." She gestured vaguely in the air, a twist of her wrist and a flick of fingers apparently meant to illustrate infatuation. "But spending time with a boyfriend -- God, that sounds stupid at our age. A lover? A partner? With a partner, yeah. That doesn't mean you have to drop everyone else in your life. And maybe you have reasons, but that's a warning sign. A worrying sign. So I am worried."

Foggy sighed explosively and downed a too-large swallow of not-tequila while he tried to regain his mental balance.

"Okay. I get that. I guess I have been kind of unavailable, which in retrospect was a dick move. Can we agree to blame Matt and say I was unfairly projecting my issues with him onto you?"

"I don't know. Is that true?" Karen asked.

"Probably? Mostly?" Foggy shrugged. "I'm sliding rapidly toward drunk, don't ask me for deep coherent thought."

"Pfff," Karen said, but she mercifully let the subject drop. " _Anyway_ , now that we have unearthed your weird avoidance issues, I think you should confront them head-on by introducing me to Ray sometime soon. And then we should make a pact to meet for drinks or something every couple weeks -- like your lunch dates with Matt, only with less food and more questionable cocktails."

"Matt and I," Foggy said with as much dignity as he could muster, "have never been on lunch dates in our lives, and anyway, we're not doing that anymore. Because he is an interfering hypocrite, and also--"

Karen lunged across the table and pressed her hands against Foggy's mouth. "Shhh, he's coming back! Change the subject."

"Um," Foggy said as she removed her hands.

"Um," Matt echoed as he folded up his cane and groped (faking? or actually tipsy?) for the back of his chair. "If you need a new subject, can I make a suggestion? Or is that none of my business?"

_Eavesdropping_ , Foggy mouthed at Karen, who squinted in confusion before rolling her eyes and flapping her hand dismissively.

"I think it's still technically my turn," she said out loud, "but I'm feeling generous. I retain veto rights if I think it will end in shouting, though."

Matt smiled as he sat.

"Glass at your two o'clock, eight inches from the edge," Foggy said reflexively.

Matt nodded and pulled his chair in close to the table. "I realized that we're ostensibly here to celebrate your new op-ed column, but we haven't talked about that at all. That seems ungracious. I thought you might want to brag a little, or tell us about any articles you already have planned," he said, and he smiled: a devastating blend of his 'I'm totally conning you' shtick with genuine interest and admiration.

Last year, Karen would have melted like ice cream under July sun. Now either she'd remembered she was made of sterner stuff, or learning how utterly fucked up Matt really was had defanged some of his charisma.

Foggy wished he could say the same for himself.

"There is a catch somewhere in that offer," Karen said, narrowing her eyes uselessly at Matt. "But you're right that it's ungracious not to let me brag, so I am going to spring your trap. I do, in fact, have several articles planned -- there's no way to be sure when I'll get to run them, since I'll have to do a bunch of responses to current events -- but I want to do a series about the continuing instability in Hell's Kitchen, and the lack of an adequate social network to fill the holes left by Fisk and the gangs Frank took down."

"Oh boy, here we go," Foggy muttered, throwing her own words back at her. Karen ignored them with slightly drunken aplomb and poked a finger into Matt's sternum instead.

"Clearing out bad guys is only step one. For step two, you have to build something to replace the rot, a way for people to make an honest living. You have to give them the opportunity to change and a reason to take that chance."

"And if they don't take it?" Matt asked.

" _Then_ you can punch them in the face. But first they get that chance," Karen insisted. "Now shut up, drink your mezcal, and let me rant about the 10th Avenue station and the Port Authority's bus terminal replacement plans."

\---------------

Ray shut the door of Foggy's apartment hard, just shy of a slam, and proclaimed, "I fucking hate my life."

Foggy looked up from his phone where he'd been reading Karen's latest op-ed -- a deadpan sarcastic turn on the stupidity of De Blasio getting mired in upstate corruption scandals when common sense suggested there were a lot more opportunities right here in the city -- and winced. "That bad, huh? What happened?"

"I told you how I was still on probationary hire at the warehouse, right?" Ray asked as he unbuttoned his uniform shirt. "If I hit my productivity targets and don't have more than three infractions, I'm supposed to get moved to full hire and get an automatic raise. I mean, it's only ten more cents an hour, but shit adds up, right?"

"Right," Foggy agreed, trying to concentrate on Ray's words instead of his boyfriend's broad shoulders and back muscles rippling under nothing but a thin undershirt.

"And I was _two days_ from getting there, until Beasley comes down on me like a ton of bricks for the dumbest, pettiest shit. Like, I forgot to silence my phone this morning -- which I've seen him do all the fucking time! -- and when I got a few texts from a friend, he acted like I'd murdered a baby, you know? So I made it to full hire but I have to gut it out another three months before I get another chance at that raise." Ray flung his hands skyward in frustration and kicked the baseboard under the mail table.

Foggy frowned. "That is... probably technically legal, sorry, but wow, talk about a dick move."

"That's what I said. And the thing is, nobody ever gets the fucking raise unless they kiss up to management and start shitting on the rest of us. We all know it's bullshit, but everyone in the warehouse needs a job bad enough that we let them kick us around anyway."

"Do you want me to ask my cousins if they know of anything that's opened up since spring?" Foggy asked. "It's usually easier to get a job once you already have one, and it sounds like almost anything would be an improvement."

Ray shook his head, then nodded, then rubbed his hands over his face and shrugged. "Man, I don't know. Like, at this point I almost want to stick it out just so I can get that raise fair and square and rub it in Beasley's face -- or maybe let some stock wander off to fake drivers on purpose since he acts like I'm doing that anyway. But that's probably not, uh, what's the phrase... not a 'constructive outlet for negative emotions,' you know? So I guess, yeah, ask around, but I've been asking too and I'm not exactly holding my breath."

"Hey, come here, sit down." Foggy set his phone on the coffee table and patted the empty sofa cushions. After a moment, Ray dropped down beside him, took a deep breath, then curled up and tilted sideways until his head was in Foggy's lap and one hand rested on Foggy's knee.

"Sorry, man, I didn't mean to dump that on you. It's just, it's hard doing all this work and getting no respect and hardly any money. And then I look at you and Soledad and I feel useless. Like, what am I even doing with my life? Even the guys I used to hang with -- from back before I went inside, you know? -- even they're doing better than me." Ray sighed and traced his fingers up and down the side of Foggy's calf, a light, absent gesture that probably wasn't meant to send sparks shooting up and down Foggy's spine but somehow did anyway.

Foggy shifted in his seat, settling Ray's weight a little further away from his groin. They should finish this conversation before he got too distracted.

"It's a false comparison. Those old friends from your gang days probably wouldn't be doing half as well as you are if they were trying to deal with your situation," Foggy said. "Anyway, unless they've turned over new leaves themselves, they're always tap-dancing on the edge of a cliff. The police aren't dumb, plus this really smart guy I know says there's a power vacuum and turf wars messing everything up in the underworld." He rubbed his fingers through Ray's hair -- tidy, now, not like when they'd first met in April -- and smiled when Ray hummed in appreciation.

"I know," Ray said, his voice vibrating faintly against Foggy's thigh. "Crime's a big gamble with the house against you, and it's not like you can just say no thanks and walk away after one round. I don't want to be the kind of loser who can't hack it and winds up right back in prison. But it still sucks running into the guys buying coffee or whatever, and they brag about all the shit they're buying their girlfriends and their kids and stuff, and here's me stuck in dead-end nowheresville with fucking Beasley on my case."

"Mmm," Foggy said, still petting Ray's hair. "You think it might feel easier if you don't stick around to chat when you run into them?"

Ray sighed. "Yeah, I guess, but I hate freezing people out, you know? And it's not like I'm going to let anyone talk me into armed robbery again -- been there, done that, got the t-shirt, never going back. Anyway, who needs to walk around with a big kick-me sign on your back, begging the Devil to come fuck you up?"

"Ugh, Daredevil," Foggy grumbled. "Don't get me started on that son of a bitch."

Ray made a wordless inquiring noise.

"I met him on the Fisk case," Foggy said, choosing his words. "He needed some honest lawyers, and I guess he figured Matt and I fit the bill since we'd already gotten on Fisk's bad side." Which was... well, it was sort of the truth, if only from a very selective angle. No matter how pissed off he was at Matt, Foggy wasn't going to spill his secrets.

"Anyway, he was a self-righteous jerk. And while Fisk needed to be stopped from destroying Hell's Kitchen in the name of whatever cockeyed vision of gentrification he was chasing, I don't agree with what Daredevil does in general. Committing repeated assault and battery is not the way to create safety and order. Daredevil just invites imitators who are even more violent -- Frank Castle being exhibit A -- and he encourages people to think that law and government are pointless and useless, because obviously if the system worked he wouldn't feel a need to go break legs and knock heads, right?"

"I don't know, man. World's full of assholes. Some days knocking heads doesn't sound half bad," Ray said.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't actually do it," Foggy said. "Not anymore."

"Not back then, either. I'm not a fucking ninja, you know? Also not a big fan of getting beat to hell and back every week."

Foggy snorted. "Yeah, he's got to have some serious masochism issues. But anyway, Daredevil does go out and knock heads. And that implicitly tells people that they can't win from within the system. So they check out, either passively or explosively, instead of trying to fix their communities and make sure the people who need help actually get some."

Foggy realized he was sawing his hand through the air like he was trying to make a point to a jury, and dropped his fingers to clench the sofa arm instead. He took a breath and finished, more calmly, "I get that he wants to make a difference, but what he does is like-- like scooping water out of a leaky boat one bucket at a time, instead of patching the holes that keep letting more water right back in. It's a short term solution at best, and in the long run, it all falls apart."

"Mmm," Ray said. "Treading water instead of building a boat."

"Ha. Yeah. But enough about that asshole. You've had a shitty day, so I think it's my contractual obligation as your boyfriend to help you feel better."

Ray twisted until he could look upward and catch Foggy's gaze. "That so?" he asked, a slow, heated smile curling its way up from his mouth to his eyes.

"Cross my heart," Foggy said, and hauled Ray up for a kiss that promised better things to come.

\---------------

Soledad waved from the momo bar's window table as Foggy and Ray pushed through the door, a gust of crisp fall wind following them inside. "Hey, kiddo, congrats on your new job!"

"What she said," Karen agreed, looking up from her coffee with a smile. "Also, you two are late and failing at your hosting duties; Soledad and I had to introduce ourselves to each other. It was awkward and embarrassing, and I blame you entirely."

Foggy smiled back as he and Ray settled into the opposite side of the booth. "Mea culpa. But you did find each other. Aren't you glad Ray reminded me to send you each photos just in case?"

"He's always been good at details," Soledad said, and reached across the table to ruffle her brother's hair. Ray ducked out from under her hand with an obviously faked scowl, and stuck his tongue out at her. "So mature, this guy," Soledad said. She flicked her fingers lightly against his forehead before pulling back.

"Like you're any better," Ray said. "Come on, let's hit the buffet. I'm starving."

They duly filed their way through the cramped interior of the tiny Tibetan restaurant and filled their plates with an assortment of dumplings, sauces, and side dishes that Foggy couldn't identify but was fairly sure, judging by the smells, would taste delicious. Once they settled back at their table (and found that a server had wandered by to fill their water glasses in their absence), he poked Ray in the side and said, "Okay, tell these two lovely ladies what you told me about your new job, and how you no longer have to worry about Beasley the great and terrible."

"There's not that much to tell, man," Ray said as Karen attempted to stifle a snicker. "It's a property management company, right? Residential and commercial. They're called Consolidated Management Services, the Midtown West branch."

"I marked off another square on my 'corporate America is terrified of calling Hell's Kitchen by its actual name' bingo card when he told me about his interview," Foggy said. Karen snickered again. 

Ray hooked his foot around Foggy's ankle under the table. "Love you, man, but let me tell the story before Soledad dies of anticipation, okay?"

"Yeah, don't leave me hanging," Soledad said. "What's property management even mean? Are you in training to be a realtor or something?"

"Nah, nothing that fancy. See, not all landlords want to actually deal with their buildings, right?"

Soledad nodded.

"So CMS does all that stuff for them: listings and leases, but also maintenance and cleaning and whatever. And somebody has to coordinate things. I won't do the legal or financial stuff, but starting Monday I get to take incoming calls and faxes and emails, turn them into work orders, and assign them to whoever has the right skills for the job and isn't already busy doing ten other things that day. Then I get back to the people making the complaints and tell them help's on its way, so they chill out and don't escalate shit to upper management."

"That sounds like an amazing job," Karen said. "I mean, I wouldn't trade in my place at the Bulletin, but back when I was with Union Allied, I would have given a lot for that kind of office work. Enough variety and responsibility to feel like you're actually doing something a machine couldn't do better, but without most of the bullshit managers have to deal with."

"Yeah, exactly!" Ray agreed around a mouthful of minced pork. He swallowed and continued: "It was the craziest thing, you know? I knew a guy who knew a guy--"

"Not one of your old crew, right?" Soledad put in.

Ray shrugged, suddenly awkward. "Kind of? Like, he hung with us and didn't snitch, but he was too smart to get pulled into our worst shit, ditched us for college when Jimmy and Carlos started getting into guns and dealing. He's a CPA now. That's how he knew about CMS -- he does the books for some of the commercial tenants. You remember DeShawn, right? Emilia had a crush on him when she was, like, twelve?"

Soledad's face cleared. "Oh yeah, DeShawn. That was nice of him, to remember you and lend a hand. I'll have to make him cookies or something."

Ray held up his hands and made a cross with his index fingers. "No! Not while I'm still living with you, you won't! Just buy him a Starbucks gift card like a normal person and leave your poor oven in peace."

Karen perked up. "Okay, this sounds like a story I need to hear."

"You really do," Foggy assured her as Soledad swatted at her brother's hands. "Soledad's baking catastrophes are the raw material of epic poetry."

"And they are not the subject under discussion!" Soledad said. "We're here to quiz my baby brother about his new job, not mock me for my tragic kitchen misadventures. So, DeShawn told you about this job, and...?"

"Actually, he didn't tell me until after he'd already talked me up to the CMS guys, so much that they came looking for _me_. It was the craziest thing, getting that call, you know?" Ray shook his head. "I would've thought it was a scam if DeShawn hadn't called me just an hour before. I got an interview the next day, and I guess it went really well because they hired me even though I have, like, no official qualifications or experience. And it pays almost twice what I got at the warehouse, so that's like gravy on top of just getting out of that hellhole."

"Well, logistics are your thing, like numbers are mine and words are Emilia's. I guess that came through and they realized what a catch you'd be," Soledad said. "I'm so glad for you, kiddo. You've had it tough for a while, but it looks like your luck's finally turned a corner. I'm crossing my fingers for things to keep going your way."

"Hey, my luck turned a corner back in April when I met this guy sitting next to me," Ray said, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Foggy's mouth. "But yeah, I guess the rest of my life's catching up to that level at last. Social responsibility, here I come."

"You're a sap," Foggy said, fondly. "And I think April was lucky for both of us."

Across the table, Karen made a disgusting cute cooing noise, and winked at Foggy when he wrinkled his nose at her.

Dinner couldn't last as long as any of them might have liked -- Soledad had an evening lecture to prepare for, and Ray had one last swing shift at the warehouse since he wanted to hand in his notice to Beasley in person -- but Foggy and Karen had nowhere to be and by unspoken agreement found themselves walking northward along 9th Avenue toward no particular destination.

"Thanks for inviting me," Karen said they passed a gaggle of confused Scandinavian tourists. "I really like getting to see you on a more regular basis."

"Same here," Foggy said. "Thanks for knocking sense into me this summer. I was being an avoidant jerk, and it was completely stupid because you and Ray get along fine. Oh, and speaking of: you should go to Soledad's next roller derby match. I know you're not a Mayhem fan, but she's been a bit lonely and stressed out this year, with her old roommate leaving town and trying to balance between Ray and the rest of her family, and I think you might be a bit lonely and stressed out too, so. You should be friends!"

Karen smiled and tucked her hand around his elbow. "You are just as much of a ridiculous sap as Ray. More, actually. Life isn't all tidy ribbons and bows the way it works in stories, and you don't have to try spreading your happiness to everyone you know. But I will think about looking up Soledad's game schedule. Not because I'm following your advice! Just because a good roller derby match is always worth seeing, even if it's not my team. And if something comes of it, Mr. Nelson, you have my advance permission to gloat."

"It's a deal, Ms. Page."

"So, while we're on the subject of friends..." Karen began, only to trail off.

Foggy sighed. "No, I have not seen Matt since July. We are, however, back in contact: weekly phone calls instead of biweekly lunches. They're pretty short and we mostly complain about our caseloads and trade restaurant tips instead of anything important, but it's something."

"Good. That's good. Do you think you might work back up to actually meeting in person any time soon? Because you're both still my best friends, and it's awkward not really being able to talk about either of you with the other."

Foggy sighed again. "I don't know. I'm starting to think I never really got over finding out about his, um, volunteer work, let alone the way he basically smashed up our lives along with his last year. I don't like being angry at him, but I haven't seen any real signs that he's trying to pull up out of that spiral, and without that I'd rather not open myself up to more pain."

Karen grimaced and nodded at the same time. "That's fair. But he _does_ have a caseload, which means he's managing to hold down a day job and not run himself into the ground with, uh, volunteer work. And he's not pushing you about Ray anymore. Those are positive signs."

"Maybe so," Foggy allowed. "Okay. Next time I call him, I might tiptoe into deeper waters. And if something comes of that, you have _my_ permission to gloat."

Karen grinned. "Here's hoping we both get to put our amazing gloating skills into practice."

"I can drink to that," Foggy said. "Actually, let's do that. Come on, I think I see a bar around that corner."

He swung Karen around and they headed, laughing, for a neon-lit storefront.

\---------------

From the moment Jerry Dubauer shook his hand and assured Foggy that, in the unlikely event his case actually went to trial, he trusted Foggy would make sure this minor unpleasantness went swiftly away, Foggy knew he was going to hate every second of representing the man.

Actually, he'd known that since Benowitz assigned him the case with a pointed comment about Dubauer's longstanding friendship with Armand Tully and how Foggy's personal touch would show that their firm hadn't suddenly turned into bleeding heart tilters at windmills; they provided a necessary service to whoever paid their rates, and left judgments of guilt up to judge and jury. But abstract knowledge was different from the visceral realization that he was stuck defending the exact same kind of scumbag who'd tried to drive Elena Cardenas out of her home, and for the exact same kind of shady behavior: driving out long-term tenants so he could build something shinier and higher rent in their place, except this time with small business tenants on 10th Avenue rather than residential tenants on 8th.

Fortunately, these days he had Marci to commiserate with instead of Matt to make him feel even more like a sack of shit. Marci might be a shark through and through, but she was a shark with ethics and sometimes Foggy needed a reminder that that was possible -- that he hadn't sold his soul when he and Matt dissolved their firm, and that defending assholes was, in fact, necessary or else the legal system would collapse and then where would Matt's vaunted innocents be?

(He was possibly still bitter about Matt's hypocrisy on that issue, especially since Matt had been the one to grab the Healy case, to say nothing of offering their services to Dt. Hoffman.)

He liked to think he served a similar purpose for Marci, which was probably why, when Dubauer finally packed up his plasticine smiles and sauntered out of Foggy's office, Marci walked in less than a minute later, her knock serving more as an afterthought than a request for entrance.

She closed the door behind herself and held up a small plastic pump bottle filled with sparkling green goo. "Hand sanitizer?"

" _Thank you_ ," Foggy said, grabbing the bottle and pressing a generous blob onto his palm. "Is there any chance that you also brought a bottle of soul sanitizer? Or some kind of atmospheric sleaze neutralizer spray?"

Marci rolled her eyes and settled herself on the corner of his desk. "Unfortunately, Stark Industries still hasn't invented those. My perfume is far too expensive and delicate to use like air freshener, and you don't need the aura of cheap desperation that comes from Febreeze."

Foggy sniffed his palms, grimaced at the stale mix of isopropyl alcohol and sweat, and made a note to visit the bathroom as soon as possible. And possibly also track down some Lysol spray for his desk, ugh. "Don't worry, Matt trained me out of Febreeze back in freshman year."

Marci's face stilled for a second. Then she smiled, sharp and wry. "I can admit, at a safe distance, that Murdock wasn't entirely devoid of positive qualities. That said, let's pretend we've had the hundredth iteration of our little pep talk therapy session and move on to more productive things, such as figuring out how you're going to make a jury pick Dubauer's side when he's a living dictionary illustration for assholes."

"By reminding them of the burden of proof, which, unless new evidence comes dramatically to light, the prosecution will not overcome," Foggy said. "Even slime in a suit deserves the benefit of the doubt." Which he would give to Dubauer by not assuming the man was even now bribing and strong-arming the judicial machinery of New York to make his crimes vanish into thin air.

"I'm not arguing against that. Just remember, it's harder to make people sympathize with dicks than with murderers. Especially ones who did a bunch of business with Fisk and slipped the FBI's net on technicalities."

"Speaking of murderers, how _is_ Ms. Abdulky's case going?" Foggy asked.

Marci's raised eyebrow said that his subject change was sad and graceless, but she'd let him keep his illusion of freedom for the moment. "Ms. Abdulky, who is only an _accused_ murderer, is doing as well as can be expected given the sensationalist bullshit the Bugle's been running about her and her late, unlamented husband. If you want any more details, you'll have to talk her into hiring you as co-counsel. Which, fair warning, I will advise her against doing because her finances don't need that hit, Chao already thinks you take too many pro bono hours per month, and I don't need the distraction."

Foggy sighed. "Fair. Do you want me to see if Karen can wrangle a couple sympathetic articles in the Bulletin? It won't do much for your jury pool, but it could make Ms. Abdulky feel a little less alone and might nudge attitudes in more useful directions for any future cases like hers."

"Yes, do that," Marci said. "And stop slumping, Byronic moping is a terrible aesthetic on you. To return to my original subject, I saw you come down to meet Dubauer. Did you get there soon enough to hear how he treated poor Yixing at reception?"

"No, and I have a feeling I'd be much happier never finding out."

"But you should know exactly what you'll have to play down at his trial!" Marci said, falsely supportive. "So listen, I was coming back from a coffee break and when he walked in the door -- which he deliberately made his assistant not hold for me because he couldn't spare two seconds for basic manners -- the first thing he said was--"

Someone knocked on the office door, rescuing Foggy from unwanted confirmation of his client's general awfulness as a human being.

"Come in!" he said.

The door swung open, revealing Ray, an awkward smile on his face and an uncertain hunch to his broad shoulders. "Uh. Hey," he said. "I thought maybe I'd surprise you with lunch? There's a really great pierogi stand by my office. But if this is a bad time...?"

"There is no such thing as a bad time for pierogis," Foggy declared, "and even if there were, I'm just doing background research and general prep stuff until four. Bring me my rightful tribute."

Beside him, Marci cleared her throat.

"Oh, right. Marci, this is Ray Gutierrez, my boyfriend. Ray, this is Marci Stahl, my brilliant and terrifying coworker."

"Also his ex," Marci added brightly. "But if you give me a pierogi, I promise not to steal him back from you."

Ray laughed, posture easing, and let the door swing shut behind him. "Sounds like a fair deal. Take your pick. I bought, like, stupid amounts of stuff. I guess having a paycheck with numbers you don't need a microscope to see makes me a little crazy." He walked over to drop a large paper sack on Foggy's desk and a fleeting kiss on the corner of Foggy's mouth.

Marci made a face like she'd smelled something rotten. "True love, gross. My cue to flee."

"Shut the door on your way out, and don't forget the pierogis," Foggy said, before tugging Ray close for a proper kiss. Laughing, Marci departed with a rustle of paper and the clack of stiletto heels on the expensive tiles of the hallway floor.

"Hi there," Foggy said as Ray pulled back and leaned against the desk corner opposite the one Marci had been sitting on. "And hey, not that I'm ever unhappy to see you, but I thought you only got half-hour lunch breaks? I don't want to get you in trouble just three weeks in to your new job."

Ray's face did something complicated that reminded Foggy unpleasantly of Matt weighing how little of the truth he could reveal without breaking Foggy's trust. Then he sighed. "It's okay, I got permission to leave early today. I'm just-- I'm having a few second thoughts, you know? Like, sometimes the tenants have legit problems, but management has legit reasons they can't deal with that stuff right now or ever. Contracts don't change just because someone's having a hard time. And I have to sit there and tell people, yeah, the world sucks and I can't change it for you. I'm not sure I'm cut out for playing middleman."

Foggy fished a pierogi from the bag while he organized his thoughts. "That sucks. Do you want to quit? Or stick it out for a while, maybe start job hunting on the side, and see how you feel in another few weeks? I will support you one hundred percent whatever you decide."

Ray shrugged. "I dunno. Mostly I just feel like I'm kicking people when they're down, like I'm the face of the system grinding them up. And I was wondering if you've ever felt like that. I mean, they make lawyer jokes for a reason, yeah?"

Foggy clapped his free hand to his chest. "Ow, straight through the heart." Ray laughed, but not as freely as he normally would have.

"I mean, obviously the details of our jobs are different, but I know what you mean about feeling like the face of a broken system," Foggy said, feeling his way through something he'd rarely tried to verbalize. But he needed to make the effort. He wasn't going to lose Ray to a lack of communication.

"Maybe a client had sympathetic reasons for what they did, but the law is the law and they broke it." Like Frank Castle. "Or a client is an utter douchebag and morally guilty as fuck, but the law is the law and they didn't technically cross it." Like Dubauer. "And I get stuck explaining to people that we _can't_ judge every last thing on a case-by-case basis -- especially since people will never agree on a lot of the edge cases -- so the law is the best compromise we have to keep things more or less together."

"Compromise sucks," Ray said.

"Preach," Foggy said, raising his pierogi like he was making a toast. "But there's no such thing as a job without ethical issues. Even data entry can stick you between a rock and a hard place if you pay attention to the numbers you're typing." And he was so glad Karen was in a better place these days. "So we muddle on through, fix the rules when we can, and do our best to be kind and socially responsible in the gray areas."

Ray smiled. "You're probably right. Can't give to charity if you don't make money first, yeah? And you know, I do like it when I _can_ untangle stuff. It makes me feel like I'm actually making a difference, not just marking time. Thanks for listening, man."

"Anytime," Foggy said around a mouthful of onion and pastry.

Ray's smile gained a wicked tilt at one corner and he slid a step closer along Foggy's desk. "Hey, so. I've got nowhere to be all afternoon, and you said you've got no one to see until four o'clock, yeah? How good is the soundproofing on this room?"

It probably wouldn't be very socially responsible of them to test that.

As Ray's fingers caught hold of his tie, Foggy decided he didn't mind.

\---------------

"Foggy, I wanted-- oh. Ah, is this a bad time? I can come back later." 

Foggy rolled off his couch and clutched wildly for his abandoned shirt before trying to stand up -- not that it would make any difference to Matt, but it was the principle of the thing. Ray grabbed one of the throw cushions and held it really obviously over his thighs, scrabbling underneath it to pull up his boxers and jeans.

Meanwhile, Matt did an amazingly good impression of sheepish embarrassment at interrupting a heavy make-out session, shoulders hunched into his autumn jacket and hands playing nervously up and down the handle of his cane.

"There are these amazing inventions called knocking or calling ahead! You might have heard of them," Foggy snapped.

There was no way on earth Matt hadn't known what he was interrupting. There was also no way he could call Matt on cock-blocking with malice aforethought, since that would require explaining Matt's secrets to Ray, and Foggy was still not that much of a jerk (no matter how pissed off he was).

Also, how did Matt still have a key to Foggy's apartment? Foggy distinctly remembered Matt throwing it at him back in May, and he'd had no legitimate opportunities to acquire a new copy since then.

"Telephones only work if the person being contacted bothers to answer his messages and texts," Matt said, tone and posture shifting away from embarrassment toward annoyance, before he remembered he had a persona to keep up and ducked his head in fake apology.

"Messages?" Foggy repeated. "What messages?"

Behind him, Ray cleared his throat. "That, uh, might be my fault? I kind of silenced your phone after lunch. You were complaining about that asshole client calling you in for bogus makework on your days off, remember? And I wanted to make sure we weren't interrupted for a couple hours."

"Oh," Foggy said.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you despite your precautions, Mister...?" Matt said, letting the sentence trail off meaningfully.

"Gutierrez. Ramon Gutierrez," Ray said. "Foggy's boyfriend. And you are?"

"Matthew Murdock, Foggy's former law partner," Matt said, which on the one hand was good -- he wasn't claiming a degree of closeness that he'd forfeited -- but on the other hand, it was deeply weird not to hear Matt introduce himself as either Foggy's best friend, his roommate, or his partner (no qualifiers attached). Besides, how was Foggy going to explain why his former law partner had a key to his apartment? "I mean what I said earlier; I can come back at a better time."

He was lying through his teeth, but Foggy was fairly sure that only seemed obvious to him because he knew all Matt's tells.

Ray raised his eyebrows at Foggy, who shrugged and tried to visually convey that he'd be willing to kick Matt out if Ray didn't want to lose part of their shared day off to random complications from Foggy's past. Ray looked down at Foggy's still half-unbuttoned trousers, then over at the couch, and shook his head with a wry smile. "Nah, man, don't worry about it. The mood's gone. Besides, it sounds like you and Foggy have some business to hash out. I have a couple errands I needed to run tomorrow; I'll just take care of them today instead."

"That's very kind of you," Matt said, aiming his conman smile roughly one foot left of where Ray was standing.

"I'll swing back around six, pick you up for Soledad's match and then dinner," Ray said, and pulled Foggy in for a kiss that promised to make good on everything they'd started before Matt's interruption. "Love you, man. Don't get too wild and crazy while I'm gone."

"Same to you," Foggy said, and gave Ray's arm one last squeeze before letting him scoop up his new fall coat and his phone and head out on his probably manufactured errands.

Foggy buttoned his trousers and counted up to twenty and back down. Then he rounded on Matt, who had taken advantage of the silence to perch on one of the barstools at Foggy's kitchen counter. "I cannot believe you. You couldn't wait a few hours until Ray turned my phone back on? I spent more nights than I can remember trying to get in touch with you when you weren't answering either of your phones, and I never broke into your apartment. Where did you even get the key?"

Matt set his jaw like he was holding onto his temper with very frayed reins. "You gave me the key. I threw the wrong one to you in May; that was one of the keys to our old office. And I couldn't wait because I needed to talk to you in person and when you didn't answer your phone, I was afraid something had happened to you."

"You think I didn't worry about that every night you went out punching things? You think I don't _still_ worry, even after everything? Fuck you." Foggy folded his arms. "Say what you came to say and get out."

"I've been staying out of your personal life, like you asked, because you were right; it's not my place to police who you date." Matt took a deep breath, and the anger drained out of his face and shoulders, leaving the expression of a man not entirely sure how to tell a friend that his beloved dog had just died. "But I've been tracking some of the little gangs trying to build power in the vacuum Fisk, Frank, and the Hand left, and I don't want to lie to you by omission again."

Foggy leaned heavily against the sofa back. "Oh god. What's wrong this time? More undead ninjas? Fisk setting assassins on us even though he's still locked up? A whole gang of mini-Castles who've decided all lawyers count as crooks?"

Matt shook his head. "No, nothing that dramatic. But, ah, you might think it's worse."

He paused, licked his lips, and continued like he was choosing each word with the same care someone might choose an engagement ring. "Since the end of August, there's been an increase in warehouse thefts near the waterfront. I started looking into them, and they turned out to be connected to a bunch of wrongful evictions, shady construction deals, and some attempts to set up protection rackets all the way east to 8th Avenue -- also a couple soup kitchens, three daycare centers, a clothing consignment shop, a homeless shelter, a women's job training service, and a lot of unexpected donations to afterschool programs."

"Criminals with social consciences; what'll they think of next," Foggy interjected.

It was a weak joke, but Matt would have smiled in the past. He didn't smile now. He just plowed grimly onward. "There are at least four separate gangs and a handful of white-collar operations involved, but the same name keeps coming up as the coordinator: someone calling himself the Rainmaker. He's been organizing all those little groups into something that might grow into a real problem, and he's trying to build goodwill in the neighborhood to keep people from turning him in. He only gives orders through self-deleting texting apps, so it's been hard for me to track him down. But I think I'm finally getting somewhere. And, Foggy, I don't have absolute proof but I'm pretty sure the Rainmaker is Ray -- or at least that Ray's his right hand man."

His mouth kept moving but Foggy lost any words in a haze of white noise.

"No," he said.

Matt licked his lips again. "I'm sorry. But I followed--"

"No," Foggy said again, louder this time. "You said yourself you don't have proof. I bet you didn't bother looking for any, because you want this to be true. You want me to be wrong for trusting Ray, because that would make you feel morally superior to him instead of facing how far you've fallen from everything you used to believe in."

"Foggy, that's not--"

"You want it to be true because you pissed your whole life down the drain, and if you can stop your friends from being happy and moving on with our lives, it makes you feel less pathetic in your own misery!"

"Foggy, I spent a week trying to convince myself it wasn't true! A whole week tracking down other leads, and none of them panned out. I _don't_ want Ray to be involved in this. I don't want you to get hurt--"

"Oh, that's new!"

"--don't want you to get hurt. And I _don't_ feel happy when people make bad choices. I believe in redemption, Foggy. I do. I have to." Matt took a half-step forward, one hand darting briefly upward like he wanted to reach out, touch Foggy's shoulder the way they used to. "But I know how hard it is, and how many people try and fail. And I believe that Ray was trying. I believe that he wanted to do right. But I also believe he made a choice, and then he kept on making them, and they were the wrong choices. Good people can do terrible things, Foggy. Believe me, I know that. And I am so sorry."

"Get out," Foggy said.

Matt slumped. "I'm sorry," he repeated, quietly.

Then he left, taking the last shreds of Foggy's happy afternoon with him.

\---------------

The problem was that throwing Matt out couldn't make Foggy unhear the things he'd said about Ray.

He found himself picking over Ray's casual conversation in search of discrepancies, calculating travel times and fretting at the extra twenty minutes that seemed to slip in now and then, wondering what exactly Ray did when his days off didn't match up with Foggy's own schedule, finding ways to casually read over Ray's shoulder when he was using his phone. It was true that Ray didn't talk as much about his new job as he'd talked about the warehouse, but Foggy had thought that was just because he'd settled into a comfortable routine and wasn't stewing in frustration anymore. No news was good news, right? Situation normal, nothing to worry about.

But what if it wasn't? What Ray was hiding something bloody and sharp-toothed behind Foggy's assumption of normalcy, like Matt and Daredevil all over again -- only worse, because Foggy should have known better the second time around.

The uncertainty ate at him like acid reflux.

Ray, not being an idiot, caught on that something was bothering Foggy, and his attempts to cheer him (homemade empanadas, a new Mayhem t-shirt, peeling that new t-shirt off Foggy with his teeth) up only made Foggy feel worse.

He lasted five days before he decided that fuck it, he wasn't Matt. He wasn't going to hug his worries to himself and stew in his own guilt until he pushed everyone who loved him away.

He'd just have to bring up Matt's concerns, with some reasonable justification for why Matt would even know the street names of small-time gang leaders, and then he and Ray could laugh everything off.

"So, uh, you remember Matt, my old law partner? Interrupted us last Saturday?" Foggy said that night as he set the containers of Chinese takeout -- hot and sour soup, fried dumplings, shrimp with peanuts, ginger beef -- onto the counter and slid onto one of the barstools.

Ray looked up from splitting his cheap bamboo chopsticks. "Yeah, what about him?"

"We talk now and then about professional stuff," Foggy said, "and he told me something that worried me a little. You remember Brett Mahoney from high school?"

Ray nodded.

"He's a police detective now, and he used to point me and Matt toward cases -- one step up from ambulance-chasing, I guess. Anyway, Matt's still in touch with him, and he said that Brett said there's been an increase in organized crime in Hell's Kitchen, between the waterfront and 8th Avenue. Thefts, fishy construction deals, shakedowns, that kind of thing. Apparently somebody's been organizing a bunch of the little splinter groups that survived Fisk and Castle: a person called the Rainmaker."

Ray paused in the middle of ladling soup into one of the oversized coffee mugs Foggy still hadn't gotten around to replacing with actual bowls. "Yeah?"

Was that just neutral interest, or did he sound wary?

Foggy tried to shake off his paranoia. "Anyway, Matt said that he'd been doing a little digging, and he got the crazy idea that you might be this Rainmaker person, or that you know who he is. Which is ridiculous, and I told him so, but I wanted to tell you so you could confirm how ridiculous it is and I can then mock him for jumping to completely erroneous conclusions."

Ray set the ladle gently back into the plastic soup container. "There's one small problem with that," he said, and Foggy's heart sank into his toes.

"Fuck. Ray, _why?_ I know your old job was awful, but there are so many other things -- better things! -- you could have done if you needed a change. You could have come to me! Or Soledad. Even your parents and Emilia were starting to come around."

"But that wouldn't have helped anyone _else_ Ray said, leaning forward. "It's like you said, man. Bailing out a boat one bucket at a time -- or one person at a time -- does nothing. I'm not the Rainmaker, but yeah, I know who he is. CMS is one of his operations and they hired me to run logistics for him. You know why I said yes? Because he's patching holes. We're taking chaos and turning it into order. Shootings are down like fifty percent since last year, plus I talked him into having our guys use some of our profits for good stuff like daycare and food and clothes."

"Ray--"

"And you know those new buildings we're putting up? They're going to have affordable rents. Hell's Kitchen's been a mess since the Incident and the last few years have just kept grinding it down. I want to help people stand on their feet again."

"Ray--"

"Look, I know it's not what you wanted for me, man, but I'm _good_ at this. I'm careful, and I don't know what Murdock thinks he has on me, but I bet you could explain it away if he gets it in his head to bring in the police. Yeah, I'm not innocent -- but I've got extenuating circumstances, right? Sympathetic motives and all that. Can you buy into this with me, Foggy? Or at least keep quiet if Murdock comes nosing around?"

The worst part was, Foggy hesitated. He liked to think of himself as a moral person, but he didn't say no right away, just like he hadn't turned Matt in two years back.

Maybe the two situations -- the two men -- weren't quite the same, but the wrenching tear between protecting someone he cared about and doing what he knew was right felt exactly the same.

Ray started to smile.

"No," Foggy said, softly, his heart breaking with each word. "No, Ray, I can't look the other way."

He'd never been afraid of Ray, not even back at the beginning when Ray was nothing but a vaguely familiar stranger with a felony record and at least twice Foggy's strength and general fitness. But now, as Ray's face paled and he stood abruptly from his barstool, Foggy began to wonder if he'd been naive.

"Foggy. Please. If you won't keep quiet, I'll have to-- have to-- man, I can't do this, don't make me do this. Just, can I hand you a twenty and we'll call this lawyer-client privilege? You were going to defend that Dubauer asshole, and he's just as deep in all this as I am."

Foggy choked back something that might almost have been a laugh. "First, that's not how privilege works, and second, no. Ray, whatever you think you have to do, you don't. You fucked up. You fucked up big time. But you don't have to keep on down this road. You can turn around. You know the Rainmaker? You run his logistics? Come with me and tell everything to the police. You'll get off easy, and we can figure out something better than a dead-end warehouse job for afterwards. I'll wait for you. I know Soledad will be there to lend you a hand too. Just, don't do this. Please. For yourself as well as for me."

The second worst part was that Ray hesitated too, and for a moment Foggy thought he might be able to talk him around, like the idiots in Metro General or the bikers in their bar, might get to snatch something workable from the jaws of total defeat.

Then Ray's face hardened and he reached sideways to grab a butcher knife from the block at the end of the counter.

"I can't. You want to know who the Rainmaker is? I'll tell you. It's Fisk. That's why no one ever sees him, why he has to work through proxies. But it's him. And if I turn on him, if I get sent back to prison, he'll have me killed. He owns most of the city corrections department these days, you know that? And I am not going back inside. I'm not going to die."

He pressed his free hand flat on the counter, ready to vault over it if Foggy moved toward his recharging phone.

"Step around toward the living room," Ray said. "We're going out the window and then you're going to disappear."

"You mean you're going to kill me," Foggy said as he obediently walked around the counter and toward his living room window, the one that opened onto the fire escape. His voice sounded distant in his own ears, like all this was happening to someone else at the wrong end of a telescope, very small and very far away.

Fisk was not reaching out to strangle New York from behind bars.

Ray wasn't about to murder him.

This was all a bad dream. Any second now he'd wake up and blame Matt for putting upsetting ideas in his head.

"No! God, no. What do you take me for?" Ray sounded genuinely shocked. "No, man, like I said: you're going to disappear. Until you change your mind, I can't let you be anywhere you can get free or find a phone. But I have people and places to work with, now, and I can keep you safe as long as I have to. So come on, open the window."

Foggy unlocked the window and pushed up the bottom pane. Then, without letting himself take any time to think about how stupid and pointless a gesture he was making, he leaned out into the November night and shouted as loud as he could: "Daredevil! Help! Fisk is trying to kill me!"

"Man, no!" Ray shouted behind him, and there was a bright flash of pain as something collided with the back of Foggy's skull.

He lost track of the next several minutes.

Eventually the world drifted back into its approximately correct proportions, and Foggy realized he and Ray were nearly to the bottom of the fire escape, his arm slung over Ray's shoulder as his boyfriend -- were they still boyfriends? did this count as a breakup? -- tried to keep him steady and make him move his feet down one step after another.

Ray was muttering to himself, an endless circular litany: "Dumb, dumb, so dumb, how are you this dumb when you're a lawyer, why do you have to pick now to be all principled, why do I have to be in love with you, I am so dumb, you are so dumb, dumb, dumb, such a dumbass--"

Foggy tried to shout for Matt again, but all that came out was a groan and a disgusting, burning lurch in his throat.

"Shit," Ray said, and tried to wrangle Foggy into moving faster. He hit the end of the fixed fire escape and kicked the hinged section, which creaked in protest but swung earthward with increasing speed until it clanged to the pavement of the delivery driveway, a few yards away from the dumpster that served the Greek restaurant next door.

"Daredevil!" Foggy called again as Ray dragged him down the final flight of metal lattice steps.

Ray slammed the knife handle into the growing bruise on Foggy's skull. "Shut _up_. He's not coming, he doesn't care, you think he's a dick anyway. My guys will be here with a car any minute now and then you won't have to keep fighting. There won't be any point. Just shut up and let me handle this so nobody has to die."

"Ray, please, you're only making this worse," Foggy wheezed through a blur of tears and strange, hallucinatory flashes of light. "Just stop. Let me go. Make this right."

Ray kept pulling. "I told you, there's no way to--"

A hard object flew out of the shadows on the neighboring building's fire escape and slammed into Ray's jaw. A dark figure followed -- red on black, or black on red, and only probably human -- kicked Ray in the gut as he struggled to keep his balance, twisted his arm the wrong way at the elbow until he let go of the knife with a strangled scream.

Foggy lurched back. He tried to gather his breath, tried to call out, but all that passed his lips was a tiny, helpless, "No."

The Devil kept twisting until Ray dove over his own arm to relieve the pressure and slammed, breathless, onto his back. Daredevil followed him down and drove one last fist, his whole weight behind it, into Ray's chest.

Bone cracked and splintered, and Ray keened, high and helpless. The Devil raised his fist again.

"Stop," Foggy managed. "Please, Ma-- Dare-- please, that's enough. Just stop."

Matt stilled. After a moment, he uncurled his fingers.

"He has accomplices on their way," he said.

"So call the police. Have them make the arrests," Foggy said. "Let the law work the way it's supposed to."

Matt didn't hesitate.

"You call," he said. "I'll stand watch in case his friends get here before the police." He tossed his burner phone over Ray's prone body. Foggy caught it with half-numb fingers, flipped it open, and dialed 911.

Then he sank to the cold concrete pavement and wondered how everything had gone so wrong.

\---------------

Several hours later, after giving his statement and getting his head cleaned and bandaged (he'd been bleeding without even noticing), Foggy called Karen from the station to ask for a ride. He didn't feel up to walking tonight.

"Oh my God," Karen said when she saw him. "Ray did this?"

Foggy nodded.

"Oh my God," Karen repeated. "I can't believe I liked that unbelievable piece of trash! When he was working for Fisk all along!"

"Not all along," Foggy said, tiredly. "Just since late August -- when he got that property management job, which apparently was a front for Fisk. The offer might have been open since before he was released, but he didn't accept until then. He really was trying to go straight."

Karen did not look appeased, but she pressed her lips firmly together and didn't contradict him. Instead, she asked, "Where to? You probably don't want to go home yet. I know I didn't, after Daniel Fisher. You can crash on my couch tonight if you'd like."

Foggy sighed. "Thanks, but no. Take me to Matt's place. He and I need to talk."

Karen gave him a searching look. Foggy wasn't sure what she saw in his face -- he was too tired for self-assessment, let alone trying to consciously project any kind of coherent image -- but whatever she found seemed to satisfy her. She opened the passenger door of the slightly battered car she'd inherited from Ben Urich and helped Foggy sit and buckle his seatbelt. Then she took off through the midnight streets, slightly too fast as always.

They reached Matt's building too soon.

"Do you want me to park and come up with you?" Karen asked as she turned her hazard lights on and clicked Foggy's door unlocked. "Just because Matt saved you -- he did save you, right? -- doesn't mean you need to kiss and make up. You're allowed to stay angry as long as you want. I decided the reasons I like him outweighed the reasons I was angry at him, but you don't have to make the same choice."

"I know," Foggy said. "But I think-- I think I want my best friend back. And that's never going to happen if I don't start listening to him the way I want him to listen to me. We should make another drink date for all three of us, but tonight I think you'd just distract us from some of the things we need to resolve."

"Okay. But if things start going wrong, call me," Karen said. She leaned across the gear shift and kissed Foggy's forehead. "Good luck. And I am so sorry about Ray. It wasn't your fault and you didn't deserve any of that."

"I love you too, Karen," Foggy said. He hesitated, then added, "Can you call Soledad? She should hear the news from a friend, and I'm just not up to that tonight."

Karen swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'll take care of her."

"Thank you," Foggy said, trying to put all his emotions into the hopelessly inadequate words, and pushed himself out of her car.

He still had a key to Matt's apartment, since Matt had never asked for it back and Foggy had never quite gotten around to taking it off his own keyring. He didn't need to use it, though; Matt opened the door while Foggy was still reaching for the knob.

He looked good. More relaxed and sure in his own skin than he had since before Elektra blew into town last year. Less bruised, too, and without the dark circles under his eyes that Foggy had worried over without knowing how to express his concern that Matt was killing himself for nothing -- not in a way that would get through Matt's addiction to violence and the illusion of tangible results he'd believed in after Fisk.

He wondered what had finally broken through that masochistic cycle.

He didn't think he had the right to ask anything that personal anymore.

"Hey," Foggy said.

"You have a concussion," Matt said. "Come in. Sit down." He slid sideways and gestured Foggy in through the door.

"I won't argue that point," Foggy said. The entry hall wasn't that narrow, but Matt hadn't moved all the way to the wall and Foggy's hand brushed against Matt's own hoodie-covered forearm as he shrugged out of his jacket.

That was the first time they'd touched since they dissolved Nelson and Murdock, Foggy realized. All those carefully polite lunches, those two screaming fights, and they'd never so much as shaken hands.

He turned and set his hand, deliberately, on Matt's shoulder. "Before we do anything else, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for coming to save me even though you had every right to write me off. And thank you for trying to warn me before that. I don't know how much of my statement you overheard--"

"All of it, at least the first time through," Matt said.

Foggy snorted and started walking toward Matt's couch. "I thought you might be perched up on the station roof like a misplaced gargoyle. For the record, that is still not how you provide emotional support, though at least it's a _little_ less useless if the person you're creeping on knows you're standing guard somewhere nearby instead of sitting at their side."

Matt laughed, a little thickly and with hardly any genuine pleasure in the sound.

"But anyway, you heard about Fisk, right?" Foggy asked as he dropped gracelessly onto the couch.

"Yeah."

"So. I'm pretty sure he didn't aim Ray at me on purpose, but that's twice now the two of us have put a spoke in his wheels, and we already know he can reach us even though he's supposed to be locked up and powerless. I think we should start being more cautious, and also set up some kind of regular check-in -- probably with Karen as well."

"Yeah," Matt said again. He sat gingerly in one of his armchairs, like he thought simple contact with his body might break it.

"Okay. Good. I'm glad we've dealt with that like adults," Foggy said. Outside Matt's window, the video billboard strobed through a series of brilliant whites and pinks, and he winced at the way the light struck hazy echoes in the corners of his eyes. "I wish you had curtains."

"Then I'd have to buy more lamps, or install ceiling lights," Matt said, in what might pass as a reasonable facsimile of offhanded humor to someone who hadn't known him for as long as Foggy.

"The horror, the horror," Foggy said. Then he shoved himself slightly more upright and said, "We need to talk about Ray."

Now it was Matt's turn to wince.

"You were right about him working for the Rainmaker, and I believe that you didn't start that investigation trying to find dirt on him. But I still think you were a complete hypocrite this spring when you hated him before he'd done anything except try to find some redemption, and I still think Daredevil isn't a long-term solution for anything." Foggy folded his hands in his lap. "I don't like being mad at you. I don't like not talking to you. But I feel like you haven't really listened to me since we left Landman and Zack, and if that doesn't change, I think I need to cut my losses and walk away for good."

Matt licked his lips and traced his fingers in nervous circles along the arm of his chair. "I was a hypocrite this spring. You're right. Especially because I've believed that objectively worse people could be redeemed. With Ray... I think part of it is how badly everything turned out with Frank and Elektra. He won't change, and she was killed before she really had a chance to try. But part of it is because-- because I know I put you in danger. I know I make you unhappy and stressed. First I tried to keep that side of myself secret to keep you safe. Then last year I tried to push you away to stop my life from spilling chaos into yours. You know how those plans turned out. But the idea of you _welcoming_ that kind of danger and stress from somebody else bothered me, more than I wanted to admit."

Foggy ventured a smile. "You're the only violent criminal allowed in my life? Is that what you're trying to say here, Matt?"

Matt didn't smile back. "Maybe. Also, I missed you. And I didn't like seeing somebody else get all the parts of you that used to be mine." He ducked his head to hide his naked eyes from Foggy's line of sight, but Foggy thought he could see a damp trail on Matt's cheek, shining in the light of the billboard.

"Oh."

Foggy swallowed.

"Uh, out of curiosity, in what capacity, exactly, do you want to be allowed in my life?"

Matt shrugged again. "Whatever you're willing to give me. I know it's probably too much to ask to reopen Nelson and Murdock--"

" _Way_ too much," Foggy agreed. "You may be doing all right with your legal clinic shtick, but you are still the king of unreliability when it comes to regular office hours."

"--but there are other forms of partnership," Matt concluded. His fingernails were practically digging the stuffing out of the chair arm by this point.

"There are." Foggy sighed. "Look, I won't lie and say I've never been attracted to you. I'm still attracted to you, actually, which I'm sure you already knew with your freaky spyware senses. But right now is too soon. I've been with Ray for nearly six months, and I can't just snap my fingers and move on because he turned out not to be the person I thought he was."

"I know," Matt said. "Elektra, remember?"

"Yeah. Right now, all I'm willing to commit to is a chance, sometime in the future."

"That's more than I probably deserve," Matt said, and smiled: a little watery, but real and heartfelt, without any of the charm he could turn on like a weapon.

Foggy had never wanted him more. And this whole night had been beyond crazy. He was allowed one more reckless, impossible thing -- hopefully a good one -- before he went back to trying to make good and careful choices.

"Oh, shut up, you deserve lots of good things." As Matt scoffed, Foggy spread one arm along the back of the couch and added, "In fact, as a special one-night treat, I think we should make sure we both want this hypothetical future chance. Come over here and kiss me, Murdock. I want to know what I'm waiting for is worth it."

Hesitantly, Matt moved over to the couch, and leaned down to brush his lips against Foggy's.

It felt like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Iraya, I'm sorry I couldn't manage the actual supervillain part of your prompt, nor an unqualified happy ending, but I hope the general story arc is more or less what you wanted. (I promise that Foggy and Matt do get their happy ending! It just didn't fit thematically within the bounds of this story.)


End file.
